Mind Like a Diamond
by APat96
Summary: Annabeth Chase is a bored paralegal. She wishes her life could be as exciting as the paintings she views every Sunday at the Museum of Fine Arts. She might just get what she wished for-in the form of a dark, mysterious stranger with a promising offer.
1. Chapter 1

"_And that is why Empress Wu commissioned this very portrait to commemorate…" _

The curator's monotonous voice snaked around Annabeth's head, dipping lazily into one ear and out the other. She smiled, dreamily, and admired the tapestry, appreciating the fine silk detailing.

The group moved on, but Annabeth remained towards the back, admiring vase after vase as she moved past them, noticing the fine cerulean detailing painted on every milky porcelain surface. She sighed, touching her fingertips to the cold glass of the exhibit as she moved on.

It was her favorite Sunday activity—going to the Museum of Fine Arts. It always had been, at least for the last five or so years that she had lived in Boston. There was always so much to see and so little time to see it. One could get lost for hours.

She lived a relatively stable, boring life. Her work as a paralegal failed to excite her, the views from her tiny loft in Brighton rarely impressed her, and, sadly, her love life had flat lined too long ago for her to pinpoint an exact date. Her build was average—though perhaps a little too tall and a little too spindly for most. Her blonde curls were often a tangled, wild mess.

Annabeth looked forward to Sundays, and could practically recite the tour guide's spiel from memory. She had already picked her favorites—a marble bust from the Roman period here, a set of medieval silverware there—and appreciated all the rest. She practically got high from that musty smell of the Egyptian wing.

She continued on the tour—admiring the various persons in her group. The crotchety old tour guide, of course, with the coke bottle glasses, tweed coat, and liver spots atop his bald pate. Also present: the group of tourists—fanny packs included—with their disposable cameras and brightly colored clothing. The intellectual family that believed themselves superior by spending their free time at the MFA, when really they were, with all the power their "superior" minds could bear, willing the tour to be over. And then, of course, there was the young couple that seemed to appear everywhere, always locked in a passionate embrace. It was as if they existed for the sole reason of making others feel old and alone. Well, it was working.

Annabeth sighed, stopping in front of her favorite Monet as the group moved onward. She could stare at it for hours, admiring the blurs and blots of colors, and how they could just as easily be a cluster of flowers, or a boat floating in a pond, as they could be a mess of paint slapped on a canvas.

The room was packed, with everyone straining their necks to get a glimpse of the impressionist' work. Annabeth rolled her stormy eyes as she remembered it was vacation week. She almost regretted coming, since the crowds were so bad. Almost.

Just as she was about to give up and head to the T stop to catch it before rush hour, she was shoved violently from behind, and her legs seemed to fly out from beneath her. Her face came inches away from hitting the canvas and tripping the sensors. She gasped, feeling the strong grip that had saved her ass from expulsion from the museum.

"So sorry about that." The deep voice said, almost apologetically. Almost.

"What the hell was—" She seethed as she whirled around to face him. Instantly, her words became stuck in her throat, and she was unable to do anything other than squeak.

The stranger's jet-black hair was swept back from his face in a neat coif, and his defined jaw was free of stubble. A long, elegant roman nose adorned his face—much like the marble busts—and his tan, especially for late February, was drool inducing. His black suit was free of creases and wrinkles, his shoes were freshly shined, and his briefcase looked to be made of the finest black leather. What shocked Annabeth most, though, were those eyes. Man, those oceanic emeralds, just sitting there, full of fire and light, hell and heaven. Temptation and sin.

"Look, I—" He began, darting those magnificent eyes to the side for a moment. Whatever he saw over her shoulder was enough to make his pupils to constrict and his spine stiffen. Just as Annabeth turned her head slightly to take a look, he forcefully turned her head back, cupping her chin and pulling her face towards his. He kissed her—a passionate, warm embrace—for several moments as rapid footsteps pounded past them. He broke away, studying her face. Now he smirked at her, that playful light rising to his eyes once more, and he turned away, looking over his shoulder only once before disappearing into the crowd. Dumbfounded, she remained.

Museum security guards—in their maroon blazers—darted past her, muttering into their radios and cursing under their breath. Even through the jittering crowd, she could make out the words "thief" and "missing". Annabeth's eyebrow's knit together, and, her mind running every scenario possible, she turned away, shaking her head slowly. Finally, her life had received the burst of color it had always needed. Now—and this was the true problem—she just had to figure out what to make of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Annabeth left the museum in a daze. As she ascended the great marble steps, scratching her head in confusion, a mess of cops and security guards stormed past her, muttering into walkie-talkies and herding visitors out by the dozen. She shook her head, continuing on.

Her apartment was really only a short ride on the T away, and she climbed onto the green line, slipping past a mother and child, flashing her Charlie Card to the conductor, and settling into a cracked, laminated seat. She sighed heavily, staring at the contoured brown flooring as the train pulled away with a squeal and a groan.

Once she reached the stop nearest to her place, she settled into a brisk walk, which, in the freezing temperatures, wasn't all that bad of an idea in the first place. She could just see the clouds of her breath swirling by, and the whole city seemed to be tinted with the bluish gray that always signaled the start of heavy winter. She hurried past the Armenian bakery next door to her building, even though the smell of baking pita called to her, and launched herself up the stairs to the small studio on the third floor that she had called home for a little over three years.

Annabeth pulled out her keys, fumbling several times to find the correct one before dropping the ring altogether. She swore, stooping down to pick them up. Finally, eventually, she pulled the correct, copper-tinted one free, placing it in the lock and turning the door handle with one swift motion. Stepping inside, she flicked the lights on, cranked the thermostat, and set her bag down by the door. Then, looking up, she shrieked.

The same man from earlier—still tall, still suave, still the handsomest man she had ever seen—was seated in the armchair by the window, staring intently at her. When she shrieked, a small smirk played across his face, amusement dousing his eyes with a dancing light.

"Hello to you, too." He smiled calmly.

"What…what the…why are you here? How did you know where I lived? Why did you follow me?" She demanded, taking a small step back.

"Well, our last interaction was so pleasant, I guess I just couldn't help myself." He grinned, standing and walking slowly towards her. She backed up some more, her open, clammy palms hitting the cool wood of the door.

"I'll call the cops. I swear, I will." She threatened, the lump in her throat growing with fear and apprehension. "You have five seconds to get out, or…or…" He advanced forward until they were standing face-to-face, well, almost. He was several inches taller than her, so to look him in the eye, she would have to lift her head. She didn't dare.

Slowly, gently, he pulled her chin up with two fingers, leaning in and kissing her chastely on the lips. He lingered for a few seconds before pulling backwards, gazing at her with loving eyes. She couldn't quite place a finger on it, but she instantly knew that he wouldn't hurt her. He felt…safe. She quickly chastised herself for being so naïve.

"Tell me who you are." She whispered.

"Prufrock." He murmured back. "J. Alfred."

Annabeth snorted, tilting her head backwards against the door. "I see you're an Eliot fan." She smirked.

"Alright, alright." He conceded, pulling back from her with a grin. "See, now I know you're a keeper. Any girl who knows Eliot is."

Annabeth frowned slightly. Pushing herself from the door and following him into the area by the window that served as the living room.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Just that I've seen you around the MFA. And, as an added bonus, you actually seem to enjoy being there. It's a plus, really. Most beautiful women care very little for the arts."

She felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth, but forced it down. "You know, most consider that _stalking._"

"You say tomato…" He trailed off, smirking. "I prefer to think of it as scouting."

"Scouting…for what?" She asked, the lump of apprehension returning to her throat. "You're not a pimp, are you?"

He laughed, a full, hearty laugh that made her want to laugh along with him. "Nothing of the sort." He grinned. "I run a business. A very lucrative one, if that matters. But I have to be extremely selective in the hiring process. Only intellectuals and appreciators of the fine arts. Being beautiful is only an added plus."

"You…" Her face knit together, trying to work through the task placed before her. She connected the dots, drawing them together, and realization dawned upon her in a short, sudden burst. "You're the thief. You're the one who stole that painting."

"'_Stole' _is a harsh word, no?" he smiled. "I prefer 'long-term borrowing."

"I don't care _what_ you call it, I want no part in it." Annabeth seethed, making way for the door and throwing it open dramatically. "Get out. Now. Before I'm liable for aiding and abetting."

"You," He began, standing and straightening out his suit jacket, "will not be accused of aiding and abetting." He chuckled, striding confidently across the small room in long steps. "Please. You make this sound so…bourgeois. I'm not running some blue-collar business here, Annabeth. Can I call you Annabeth?" He smirked. "No, this—this is a reputable, if not somewhat infamous society for the beautiful and the damned. Trust me, you'll want to be a part of it." He finished, stopping in the doorway.

Annabeth fumed, nostrils flared, eyebrows furrowed, mouth turned downward in a grimace. Somewhere, deep inside her brain, curiosity, intrigue, excitement intermingled with apprehension and fear. She didn't know what to make of the cocktail.

He looked down at her for a long, tender moment, taking her in—wild blonde curls and all—with those electrified green eyes of his. He brought his hand to his oil black hair, smoothing it down, before leaning in reaching his hand forward to shake, and kissing her on the cheek. It was cordial, almost. He nodded politely, winked, and disappeared from sight, leaving only the scent of Acqua di Gio in his wake.

Baffled, Annabeth stood, blinking, staring into the hallway. The gears in her mind moved nonstop.

It was only then that she felt the prick of card stock edges against her palm, and she looked down, semi-shocked to see a business card there. She turned it over, fingering the expensive, blood red embossed stock.

_Warhol_

_The Scarlet Ibis_

_283 Myrtle St. _

_Beacon Hill_

Scratching her head, card still in hand, Annabeth closed the door, stumbling over to the telephone. She dialed the number to her office carefully, holding the cool plastic phone to her ear still with furrowed brow.

"Hi, Elaine? Yes, this is Annabeth. I—I'm calling to say that I won't be in the office tomorrow. Touch of the stomach flu. Yes. Thank you. Take care." She clicked the phone off with a sigh, settling into the easy chair that still radiated touches of body heat from its previous occupant. She tilted her head back against the upholstery, tapping the card against her small, rounded chin. Tomorrow, she would find that man, and know his name, if not whatever game he was playing. Her mind had declared war. Whatever the game, she would win. After all, tomorrow is promised to no one.


	3. Chapter 3

The red-bricked, black-shuttered townhouse was quaint, almost. The glossy, raven colored door, with its brass doorknob glinted in the sun, and the tall, elegant windows—their glass tinted a purplish gray—overlooked the Common, Boston's finest public area.

Annabeth looked up, a blonde curl falling from her cream colored knit cap. The morning was cold, evident in the rosy blush on her cheeks. She gripped the business card—the one that brought her there—with both hands, squinting into the early morning sun as she let her arms drop to her side.

"Lovely little place, isn't it?" She heard a familiar voice call out from behind her. She turned just as "Warhol" stepped out of a shiny black town car, two cups of coffee in hand. He was dressed to the nines—per usual—in a nice-looking wool pea coat, and, underneath, a plain black suit. Soft, cream colored earmuffs hung around his neck.

"Your nonfat cappuccino—light on the skim." He smiled, extending one of the cups towards her as he took a sip of the other.  
"How did you—?" She began, taking the warm cup. Her blonde eyebrows knit together.

"Sources, darling. I have them." He grinned. Annabeth nodded—as she had learned to do whenever interacting with this Warhol character. He stood next to her and let out a contented sigh as they both looked up at the building.

"You know," she murmured without turning to face him, "my mother used to tell me that purple glass was a sign of an old building. I take it this place has been around long?"

"Correct." He smiled, facing her and tilting his head towards the door. "Shall we have a look inside?"

Annabeth gave him a tight smile, nodding as she followed him up the steps and to the door. He pulled an old-fashioned, adorned brass key from his pocket, turning it slowly before pulling the door open. He slipped inside without further thought, and she came quickly after, shutting the door behind her.

Inside, the décor was almost as beautiful as the exterior. It was what you would assume Jackie Kennedy's white house to look like—the perfect mix of classic American grandeur with hints of French and British influence. It was a timeless look.

Annabeth followed Warhol as he stripped off his coat, tossing it on an armchair in the small living room off the grand foyer. That room—dimly lit with a roaring fire—was empty, but the half-empty scotch glass on the table suggested that it hadn't been that way for long.

Warhol led her to a staircase, next. He took the stairs with ease, his steps almost sprightly and weightless. Annabeth, meanwhile, trudged behind, apprehension and premonitions making her legs feel like lead.

As she took each additional step, the second floor came into view—just as beautifully decorated as the first. Rooms stood on either side of the red-carpeted hallway, with a tall, bay window at the end. This window came with a spotless, white window seat—cushioned and calling Annabeth's name. The honey colored light and gorgeous view, though, would have to wait—Warhol was gesturing to the second door on the right.

"Here we are." He smiled, as if unaware of Annabeth's heavy breathing and dilated pupils. He pushed the glossy white door—which had been slightly ajar—open, allowing her to slip past him into the room.

The gaze of ten eyes immediately met Annabeth. Scattered through the room were five people—all men with the exception of one lanky, gorgeous woman.

No one looked pleased to see her.

Warhol followed her in, closing the door behind him, and took a seat in one of the two remaining armchairs. Glancing around nervously, Annabeth took the other. They all sat in dead silence.

"I…well, um, I…it's…" Annabeth tried to force words out of her mouth, unable to stand the uncomfortable silence any longer.

"I thought you said she was _intelligent_, Warhol." One of the men—a short, pale fellow with thinning brown hair and a soul patch—sighed, staring at her with a bored expression.

Annabeth's eyes crinkled, pressing back the tears of embarrassment, as Warhol piped up from behind her. "She is, Gauguin. Give her time."

"Well I, for one, am glad to have another woman amongst us." The other female in the group said, finally breaking a small, almost amused smile. "Cassatt" she introduced herself, leaning forward and offering up one long, tan arm to shake hands with Annabeth. "We've heard so much about you. Warhol here says you're well acquainted with the MFA. I hope he's not mistaken."

"No, he's not. I…I visit it every Sunday" Annabeth answered nervously.

"And you're familiar with the intricacies of the law?"

"Yes…I'm a paralegal."

"You seem fit for the job. I don't see why we should take you in. Oh, and don't mind Gauguin. I'm afraid he's a bit of an antagonist" she smirked.

"I most certainly am not!" Gauguin cried indignantly. "I'm merely protecting the order of the Scarlet Ibis—as the rules decree and as I see—"

"—Fit." One of the other men, a British, middle-aged professor type, clad in a tweed jacket with distinguished, gray tipped hair, finished, rolling his eyes. "As you've told us, Monsignor, thousands upon thousands of times."

"Flaxman, you needn't be so rude. I was only correcting a simple misstatement." Gauguin sniffed, shifting in position.

Warhol cleared his throat, sitting forward a bit.

"Well, now that you've gotten a feel for the group, Annabeth, why don't we get down to business. Would anyone care to discuss our purpose?" He asked, glancing briefly around the small, cream-carpeted room. No one answered.

"Dali, why don't you take a whack at it?" Cassatt smirked, reclining back in her chair and crossing one long, bare leg over the other.

Annabeth shifted her eyes to the corner in which Dali sat. She had previously paid little attention to him—he seemed too engrossed in his Chinese finger trap to be of much interest or use. Dali, a tall, spindly man with oiled down black hair and excited, light-filled eyes, looked up, grinning a crooked smile and rising from his chair.

"Well, my fair Annabeth, we are artistes of the highest order." Dali began, pacing around the room and casually, every now and then, looking back and making eye contact with her. His voice—rich, deep, with a hint of Spanish—floated, softly, and resonated in the small, light-filled room. "There are beauteous works of art—paintings, sculptures and the like—that are abused by the publique, set to rot in dusty museums. And whom, may I ask, can we blame for such maltreatment? For dooming the wonders of life to live out their days in a dirty, piss-poor environment?"

Dali smiled casually, glancing around the room. "The Pigs!" He snapped finally, after a moment, his delicate features hardening into a dog-like trance. The shock jolted Annabeth backwards. "We must blame the so-called Proletarian leaders, who believe themselves Robin Hood! Taking from the rich and powerful—who appreciate such a thing as good art—and giving to the lowly, unappreciative poor! Those monsters, those pigs, those—"

"Alright, Dali, that's…that's good." Warhol rose, placing two hands on Dali's shoulders and guiding him back to his seat. He cleared his throat, straightening his tie. "My sincerest apologies. Dali, well, he tends to be a tad excitable."

"Um…it's…fine?" Annabeth winced, looking back around the room. Dali, once more, was studying his gadget, muttering to himself about the "greedy pigs". Cassatt was filing her nails, Gauguin was scribbling something on a piece of paper, and Flaxman, who was seated next to the extensive book shelf, was reading a heavy, cracked volume. The last artist, who was so quiet that Annabeth almost forgot about him, was seated by the window, staring intently at her.

"Who's that?" Annabeth whispered under her breath to Warhol. She smiled nervously, lifting her right hand slightly in a small wave, but the artist's stony face did not move.

"That's Hopper." Warhol answered, flicking his eyes over the broad, African-American man, who was clad in black jeans and an expensive-looking leather jacket. "You'll find that he doesn't talk much."

Annabeth smiled tightly over at Hopper. Once more, he did not return the favor.

"You still haven't fully explained to me why I'm here." Annabeth murmured, turning back to him. "What place do I have among these intellectuals, and geniuses, and…"

"You have every place." He answered, grinning, his green eyes illuminated. "Everyone does—that's the point. As for what Dali said—well, it was mostly true. We take brilliant pieces of artwork—ones that aren't appreciated enough by the public—and transport them to places where they will be. It's a network of increasing exposure to and appreciation of the arts."

"And you couldn't just, you know, get jobs as curators and suggest moving things around a bit? Wouldn't that be more…legal?"

"We've found that this method is much easier. It's…evolved from our earlier ways of acting as the reverse Robin Hoods—just as Dali said. Bringing the arts back the rich and all that. Not that I was around for that. It was before my time."

"And that's _all_ you're doing? Just increasing exposure? And no one ever finds out? I mean…how does that work? Don't people realize when paintings mysteriously disappear and then reappear somewhere else?"

Warhol sighed, glancing over at his preoccupied colleagues. "No" he said. "Not if we do the job correctly. What you saw—yesterday—that was a mistake. I picked the wrong place, the wrong time, and the wrong piece of artwork. I messed up. They're none too pleased with me." He gestured towards the rest. "But when the job is done correctly, no one notices, no one cares, and everyone's a little bit better off."

Annabeth nodded thoughtfully, chewing it over. She studied his attire—the others' attire as well—with thought. No one could afford such nice clothing without a nice source of income. "So what is there to gain?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

Percy laughed smirking. "You really waste no time getting right to the point!"

"I need to know this stuff to make rational decisions" she frowned.

"Well, museums are willing to pay very highly for new, valuable pieces of work. It's quite lucrative, if you must know. We're talking above the actual price of the art itself. It's a competitive market, you see."

"So...what? You just keep what you can sell it for? That hardly seems fair."

"Of course it isn't. That's why we don't do that." He smirked.

"So, what _do_ you do, then?"

"Donate the price of the artwork—in full—to the Museum under a pseudonym. The rest—which, I might add, is still a moderate sum—goes to the seller. Do a high-profile job correctly, and you could be pocketing upwards of a million dollars per gig."

Annabeth exhaled loudly, her eyes widening. That was far better pay than Rick and Johnson—her firm—could ever offer. She brushed a hand through her blonde curls, thinking it over.

"Where do I sign?" She smiled, locking eyes with Warhol.

"Hold your horses!" He laughed at her eagerness. "You have to be voted in first, and then you'll need to sign a confidentiality agreement, and you'll need a pseudonym…" He trailed, smirking. Annabeth blushed.

"So…they vote me in?" She asked, gesturing to the group.

"Yep." He answered, smiling. "If I could have your attention, everyone?" He asked, though no one lifted his or her eyes. Warhol cleared his throat. "I nominate Annabeth Chase for membership. Could we put it to a vote? Yay or nay."

Cassatt, without looking up from her nails, proclaimed: "Yay." Flaxman echoed the positive vote under his breath, Hopper gave a slight nod, and Dali announced that he was: "absolutely, without an iota of uncertainty, in favor of the motion."

Warhol turned his eyes to Gauguin, who, now looking up from his yellow notepad, rested his pale face on his closed fist. "Nay." He said emotionlessly. "The last thing we need is another screwup."

"Well," Warhol cleared his throat, ignoring the jab, "The majority decides it. Annabeth, welcome to the club!" He grinned, shaking her hand, and the others clapped—some more enthusiastically than others. "Now," he said, pulling a sheaf of papers from the desk next to him, "If you'll just sign this confidentiality agreement, we'll get you all set up. Take all the time you need to look it over." He handed the papers to her.

The contract looked fairly standard—at least, as standard as the numerous others she had seen—and she quickly signed her name along the dotted line with a flourish. Warhol swept the papers away, tucking them back into the drawer and, this time, locking it.

"And now, our final order: finding a suitable name for our new member. Any suggestions?"

Once more, the room remained silent. Tears of embarrassment prickled Annabeth's eyes—she had never felt so much like an outcast in her life. She had always chosen solitude voluntarily, but having it thrust upon her, with little choice around it, was much crueler.

Annabeth watched across the room, as, slowly, silently, Hopper reach across Flaxman to snag a sheet of lined paper from Gauguin's notebook. Pulling a pen from the pocket of his leather jacket, he scratched something out quickly, capping the pen before crumpling up the paper and tossing it gently to Annabeth.

She lifted the crumpled paper off the floor, carefully unfolding it. Inside, Hopper had written a single word—a name.

_O'Keefe_

Warhol, peering over her shoulder to see what Hopper had written, grinned at her, his green eyes locking with her gray ones. He smoothed his jacket, reaching a tan hand forward and grasping hers tightly. His shiny black hair glinted in the mid-morning sun that streamed through the gauzy curtains.

"Welcome to the Scarlet Ibis, O'Keefe. Glad to have you aboard."


End file.
